Vacare
by Katiebugg1321
Summary: Post War, Margaret POV. Hawkeye and Margaret four years after Korea.
1. Prologue

Vacare

By: OneSongKatie

A/N: This is my first go at a post war fic, and I am _extremely_ nervous about it. This part is just a prologue. I promise all details pertaining to time frame and other practical matters (such as what went on after the war that led to this moment, stuff about Margaret's family, etc.). IAll will be fully explained in the next few chapters, so don't worry if you have big questions after reading this first bit.

Prologue

Margaret walked tiredly through the apartment door and threw her keys in the jar on the kitchen table. She sifted through the mail lying on its surface, absent-mindedly glancing around the room. Something was different.

It was clean, she noted dryly. _He did the dishes. God bless him._ She thought heaving a little sigh of relief.

Margaret hated working late, but the one thing she hated _more_ than working late was doing dishes when she finally got home. Well, that was arguable, actually, she amended. If the Army started paying overtime then maybe she would reconsider.

Margaret saw a new picture on the fridge, portraying what she could only assume was a duck. It was purple. She allowed herself a little smile. At the sound of steps coming from the direction of the hallway, Margaret turned toward the archway separating the kitchen from the rest of the house.

"See? I told you she'd be here." Hawkeye said, entering the room.

"Mommy!" A small voice cheered.

"Hi, Benny." Margaret smiled broadly at her son, taking him from Hawkeye's arms. "Did you and Daddy have fun today?" She asked, glancing at Hawkeye. He looked tired. Hawkeye smiled at her, leaning in to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

"Hi." She said quietly, searching his face. He rested a hand on her back.

"Tell Mommy what we saw today, Ben." Hawkeye winked at her. She smiled at the familiar gesture, feeling momentarily less fearful of the dullness she'd noticed in his eyes.

"Mommy, ducks!" The two year old exclaimed, clapping. "Ducks eat bwead!"

She turned her attention back to the baby. "Tell me about them, buddy." Margaret prompted, stroking his soft hair. Margaret felt Hawkeye's fingers tapping amusedly on her back.

"Tell Mommy what a duck says." He directed, glancing proudly at her. Ben quacked admirably. She kissed the baby's temple in appreciation, letting her face rest next to the silky skin of his cheek for a moment.

Ben, wearing blue footy pajamas, kicked his little legs impatiently. She pulled back to study him, noting that the dark blue of his eyes had lightened even more recently.

Ben kicked against her again. His face turned serious as he solemnly held up a finger with a small bandage wrapped around it. Margaret sighed dramatically.

"_What_ happened?" She asked, kissing the finger, and cocking her head at Hawkeye. He smiled.

"There was an incident with one of the ducks." He said, smiling coyly at her and tousling the boy's hair. Margaret raised her eyebrows at them. Hawkeye shrugged. "We got too close," he finally admitted with a sheepish smile. "Did you know that ducks could bite?" He added, almost as an afterthought. Margaret stared at Hawkeye, trying to tell if he was joking. Something was strange with him tonight. Something she couldn't quite name.

Ben nodded seriously at her. "Too cwose." He repeated with big eyes, drawing her out of her thoughts.

Margaret looked at Hawkeye, an affable gleam in her eye. "Well, it's nice to see your surgical skills aren't going to waste, Doctor." Margaret said mildly, shaking her head in resignation.

She often regretted what she missed while at work during the day. Sometimes, not very much, but sometimes, Margaret wished Hawkeye would consider returning to work. For a multitude of reasons, not least of which because she missed his presence in the operating room. And she also understood his need to take a break, time away from having human pain constantly in his face.

And there was a much smaller, quieter voice inside of her that wished she could be _here_. Hawkeye watched Ben learn words and experience new things. She heard about them after.

Hawkeye was still smiling widely at her earlier comment, though, and for the first time that night his eyes seemed to brighten. He leaned in to kiss her mouth lightly.

"How was your day?" He asked, his voice quiet next to her ear. His breath was hot against her cheek, and she couldn't subdue the smile that began to pull at the corners of her mouth. Ben giggled into her shoulder.

"And what are _you_ laughing at, _Benjamin_?" She turned back to the baby, tickling his ribs. He laughed more loudly, nuzzling his head into her shoulder. Margaret paused, cherishing the softness of his hair against her cheek. Still close to her face, Hawkeye shook his head, grimacing.

"Don't say it like that," he complained. Margaret looked at him blankly. "The _name_," Hawkeye explained. "Don't say it like that." He shuddered. "You sound like my grandmother."

Outwardly, she smiled broadly at this, rolling her eyes. Internally, however, she wondered about him. His voice sounded glib, but there was something strange in his eyes. She detected just beyond the lightheartedness something darker. Margaret couldn't place his expression. He looked as if he were smiling, but behind the smile was a lingering tiredness.

She knew suddenly with a small shudder of what it reminded her. It was Korea. She knew the look on his face because it was identical to a look she'd worn for a very long time.

Four years. It had been four years, she calculated, since she'd left that place. And there were times she thought she might be capable of forgetting. She often held to the belief that they were escaping it, with every day that passed, with every new word that Ben learned, she thought they might be able to unclench the firm grasp that place maintained upon them.

They hardly ever talked about it anymore. Even those first, shaky months, when there was nothing but confusion and purposelessness and trying to function on a human level, they only spoke of the war in short phrases.

And never about what had happened to him during their last days. Margaret knew something terrible had happened to him, had pressed its darkness upon him. He'd only mentioned it once, when she'd first seen him again a few months after the war. She hadn't known what to say then, and she still didn't.

Every once in a while she'd flash back to something, usually something small, seemingly insignificant—the way rain fell for days and days one spring, pelting their tents, their skin. She'd be at work, or driving home, and a color, or a random thought would make her remember, would flash through across her eyes with blinding clarity.

She never spoke of these incidents to Hawkeye, though. There was too much.

And she didn't want to be the first one to bring it up.

Margaret tightened her grip on Ben, breathing the scent of his hair. Maybe it was time. Maybe they should talk about it. She had to try. Even if it meant, well, Margaret wasn't prepared to really consider the consequences of discussing Korea, actually. But she could try.

"So what else happened today?" She asked Hawkeye casually, setting Ben down. The two year old immediately ran over to where a plastic ambulance lay overturned on the living room floor, shrieking loudly. Hawkeye looked at her for a moment, and Margaret again wondered at his expression.

"Mommy! Amboolince!" Ben yelled from the floor, waving his toy in the air, then setting it down and making siren noises. Margaret smiled at him across the room.

"Your sister called." Hawkeye's voice sent a jolt through her body. Margaret sharply looked up at him. Hawkeye was gazing at her intently. She quickly recovered, trying to stifle her initial discomfort.

"Oh?" She replied, with all the nonchalance she could muster. "How is she doing?" Hawkeye continued to watch her with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

"She rented a house in Virginia Beach for the summer." He paused, cocking his head thoughtfully. "She wants us to come stay with her family." Margaret stared at him silently, frowning. He looked down. "I think we should go." He quietly added, still watching the floor.

Margaret was speechless. Was he crazy? Her _family_? She had spoken to her sister only a handful of times since Korea, and _this_—this call from nowhere—upset her carefully established equilibrium. She had expressly avoided her entire family for the last four years of her life, and there was no way she was changing that plan. Not now, not when she was actually beginning to think they might be okay.

Something occurred to Margaret. Why would her sister call now? What could she hope to achieve by trying to reestablish contact? There must be something at stake. Was this all a ploy to corner her and pick apart her life? She knew it had to be, why couldn't _he_ see that?

"Did she mention who else would be there?" Margaret tried to keep her voice neutral, and almost succeeded, though she could not temper the slight tremor at the end of the sentence.

"Your mother." Hawkeye answered simply. Margaret opened her mouth to say no, _resoundingly_ no. No way she was going to allow her _mother_ the opportunity.

But before she could voice her protest, he interrupted, adding matter-of-factly, "She wants to see her grandson."

Margaret's voice was barely a whisper when she dumbly replied, "_I_ don't want her to."

Hawkeye's hand tightened on her back. "I think we should go," he said again with more resolve.

Margaret was silent a moment, considering this. "I don't know." She met his eyes, willing him to understand with the forcefulness of her gaze. "Do you really want to face all that? And what about Ben? Do you want to subject our son to _that_?"

Hawkeye's blue eyes stared intensely into her own. She realized suddenly that those were the eyes she'd seen on her son a moment ago. It didn't seem possible for such a thing to be replicated, and yet, there was no doubt. It was strange, and she contemplated for a moment if Ben had actually received any genes from her, he looked so like his father. Hawkeye's voice tore through her thoughts.

"Margaret, he's almost two and a half. They've never seen him." He was saying in even tones.

He was being way too rational about all this for her liking. When had _he_ become the rational one? She wondered, growing more and more astonished with his behavior.

Margaret shook her head. "No. You _don't_ understand." She glared at him, saying more vehemently than she really felt, "They just want an open arena to pick apart my life, and I'm not going to give them the satisfaction." She halted, starting to feel things swirl out of her control. She began to tear away from where he was standing but Hawkeye swiftly pulled her into his arms, pressing his lips to her hair. When he spoke, his voice murmured next to her ear. She closed her eyes against that feeling, immediately sensing calm returning to her body.

"Margaret," he was saying slowly, methodically. "Your sister said _specifically_ that they don't want to impose on us, they _just_ want to meet Ben." He paused, and Margaret felt him smiling against her face. "And get to know me." He added softly, sounding more surprised than anything.

She pulled back to look at him. From this distance she noticed how tired his eyes appeared. Shadows cast by the table lamp framed his face, highlighting little lines that had begun to form around the edges of his features. How long had those been there? She wondered, pressing her face against his chest. She didn't want to look at that anymore.

"Well, I do have some leave I can take," she murmured into the soft material of his t-shirt. She felt his hand gently push aside the hair hanging over her shoulders, finally resting on the warm skin at the base of her neck.

This was the easy part of their relationship, this was what always made sense to her. She didn't want to talk about what was making his eyes dark and tired.

Maybe a vacation could be a way to figure things out, she thought closing her eyes against the soft cloth of his t-shirt. Margaret tucked her arms up between their bodies, wanting to be completely encased in the circle of his embrace.

"We could use a vacation." When he spoke, Margaret felt his low voice resonate in his chest. She nodded against him. Okay.


	2. Day One

Vacare

By: OneSongKatie

Chapter 2

The ride in the car was short. Their home at Ft. Belvoir was only a couple of hours from the coast, and the scenery passed beautiful and green outside of Margaret's window.

She glanced back at Ben, who had fallen asleep some time earlier. He was still completely unconscious, sprawled across the back seat, and his head lolled with the bumpy rhythm of the car. She smiled to herself and then turned to face forward.

"He still asleep?" Hawkeye's voice surprised her, made her realize that there had been silence in the car for a very long time.

Margaret recovered. She glanced at him. "Yeah."

Hawkeye smiled. "Kid makes Rip Van Winkle look like an insomniac." He spoke in a low voice that was at once familiar in its dryness, and strange in its hollowness.

He was right, she thought, remembering. Ben had always been an admirable sleeper. Even as an infant he'd slept soundly, waking up to be fed and then promptly falling back asleep. It was kind of ironic actually, considering neither she nor Hawkeye slept through the night in those days. She shuddered inwardly. Sleeping was still a little frightening, even now. You never knew who you might see, or what might explode around you.

Margaret barely nodded her acknowledgement at his statement, however, and continued staring out the window. Although she wasn't really watching the scenery anymore. She was beginning to regret her decision. With every mile that brought them closer to their destination.

It had hit her almost immediately upon the ignition of the car's engine—this was a bad idea. The words pulsed through her mind in time to her thudding heartbeat. This would not end well. But it was too late to turn back now.

Margaret began to feel claustrophobic. Like the small space inside the car was compressing the oxygen, slowly sucking the air from her lungs.

Only _this_ wasn't claustrophobia, she admitted dully. This was Margaret anticipating a conversation with her mother. Her mother, who would look at her with those sharp, steel eyes, and in one glance appraise everything wrong with Margaret and her life. She'd ask questions—questions Margaret didn't want to answer, wasn't prepared to answer. Questions Margaret couldn't address because even she didn't know the answers. Questions about her life, about her choices. Things she could barely _think_ about, never mind survive an entire interview discussing them with her mother.

She sighed, watching the countryside pass swiftly by outside the window.

Margaret remembered those first muddled days after the war. She hadn't been able to think clearly, hadn't been able to see in a straight line. It was as if the world were cockeyed somehow, and she wasn't equipped to right it.

She'd returned to the States alone. It seemed appropriate. Margaret still wasn't sure what had stopped her from contacting her family right away—maybe it was fear.

Maybe she was afraid that when she looked at the faces of her loved ones, she'd see the same people she'd left, but when they looked at her…well she wasn't quite sure what they'd see. Or maybe what she _really_ feared was the possibility that _they_ wouldn't see a change, they would see nothing.

Margaret didn't know. She didn't know anything, really. And nothing had changed about _that_ fact in the subsequent four years.

Well, except for Ben. When Ben was born, Margaret felt a spark, the beginning of something good. Something real. She'd seen that day in his little, puffy face some kind of salvation. And slowly, but steadily, with each passing day, she felt more free, more able to see and feel and live in the world. Ben had saved both of them, Margaret realized grimly.

Margaret started at the sight of the sign on the highway with their exit on it. God they were almost there.

"Don't be nervous." Hawkeye said, reaching out to take her hand. "I don't know why this bothers you so much." He added more quietly, almost to himself it seemed. His eyes returned to the road.

Margaret knitted her eyebrows, turning again to stare out the window. She didn't want to talk about this. His grip tightened on her hand, and she turned to glare at him.

"Margaret. Come on. We need to do this, and you know it." He reminded her, in that same methodical, rational voice from before. Margaret pulled her hand onto her lap and returned to scowling out the window.

She grudgingly supposed he was right. She didn't like that he was being rational, though. It just wasn't fair. And she certainly wasn't going to agree with him out loud. Margaret was growing more and more perturbed that he had somehow conned her into this trip, actually.

Then the car turned off of the highway and Margaret's heart began to race.

When they pulled into the driveway, Margaret paused in her brooding for a moment to marvel at the house. Her sister had really done well—the house was beautiful, three stories and a slightly visible boardwalk leading down to a beach in the backyard.

"Nice house." Hawkeye commented from the other side of the car. She nodded a little, warily watching the house's front for signs of its inhabitants.

"What's her husband do again?" Hawkeye's voice came from behind her now, and she turned to look. He was halfway inside the car, retrieving Ben's sleeping form from the back seat. He slowly pulled Ben out of the car and straightened with the baby in his arms, then stood watching her quizzically over the top of Ben's head. Margaret softened momentarily, reaching out to gently stroke his soft hair. Hawkeye smiled almost imperceptibly at her.

"He's a JAG. For the Air Force." She finally answered quietly, her hand resting on Ben's back. Hawkeye nodded, and she felt his gaze on her face. She didn't look up at him, though. She was afraid. She didn't want him to see how afraid she was.

"The Air Force, huh." He said lightly. "And your Dad approved of this?" Margaret let herself smile.

"No," she answered, tentatively glancing up at him. "He really didn't, from what Molly wrote me. But then, I wasn't at the wedding. You'll have to ask my sister what she did to prevent the General from violence." Hawkeye grinned at her, nodding his understanding. He watched her thoughtfully for a moment.

"Well, bite the bullet." He commented after a beat, looking meaningfully at her. He shifted Ben's weight in his arms, and held on to her hand with his free one. Margaret felt the emotion drain from her face. She let him lead her to the front door. Before they'd made it to the porch, the door swung open and a small blur flew toward them.

A little girl stood before them, probably five or six years old, Margaret estimated. She assumed this was her niece, Caroline, whom she'd never met. The girl had light blond hair, blond like Margaret's sister's hair was when she was young. Blond like Margaret's hair had never _really_ been.

"Are you Aunt Margaret?" The little girl asked, staring at her. Margaret was slightly taken aback. She nodded at the girl.

"My name is Caroline. Who's that?" She asked pointing at Ben's sleeping form. Margaret glanced at Hawkeye.

"This is Ben. He's your cousin." Margaret answered slowly. "He's sleeping." She added, feeling a little silly perpetuating the conversation.

"I know _that_." The girl answered imperiously. "Who's that guy?" She nodded in Hawkeye's direction this time. Margaret opened her mouth to answer, but found it difficult.

"I'm Hawkeye." Hawkeye answered, noting Margaret's uncertainty.

"Are you my uncle?" Caroline asked impatiently, staring up at Hawkeye suspiciously. He cocked his head at Margaret.

"Yeah, I guess I am." Hawkeye answered finally. The little girl nodded, considering this.

"What kind of a name is Hawkeye?" She asked, wrinkling her nose at him. Margaret glanced sharply at Hawkeye, who was looking quizzically at the girl.

Before he could offer a retort the door opened once more and the figures of Margaret's sister and her husband appeared. Margaret felt her pulse quicken, but relaxed a little when it didn't seem her mother had arrived yet.

"Margaret!" Her sister exclaimed, walking toward her. Molly pulled her into a warm hug, and before Margaret could react she'd moved on to Hawkeye.

"And the infamous Hawkeye!" She was saying. "And this must be Ben. Oh, Margaret he's adorable!" Molly turned back to Margaret, embracing her briefly again before letting her go. "Margaret, you remember Tom, don't you?" She asked, gesturing towards her husband, who waved a little at her. Tom was a big guy, slightly balding now, with an easy smile.

Margaret had only met Tom once, before she'd left for Korea—before he'd been Molly's husband, for that matter—so she only vaguely recalled him. She nodded at Molly.

Molly smiled brightly back at her. "Tom, you and Hawkeye will have to talk. He used to be in the Army!" She said, glancing at Tom meaningfully before taking Margaret's arm. As Margaret let Molly lead her into the house, she caught Hawkeye's eye. He smiled at her. He was enjoying this.

Margaret had forgotten how frighteningly vibrant Molly was. She was exhausting. Margaret studied her sister. She looked mostly like Margaret, if not a little shorter. She seemed happy, though Margaret wondered if in fact, she had ever _not_ been happy. Margaret couldn't remember a time when Molly hadn't exuded enthusiasm. It was little annoying sometimes, actually, and in that way, Molly really hadn't changed.

And she was still talking, Margaret realized, trying to listen.

"And so, we just thought, Alabama isn't at all far from Virginia, and we _never_ get to see you." Molly emphasized this last statement, briefly pausing before continuing, "So Tom rented this place! Isn't it beautiful?" Margaret nodded her agreement, looking around the foyer. The house really was lovely. Very tall ceilings, Margaret noted. Molly was still talking.

"You and I have to talk!" She was saying. Molly squeezed her hand. "It is so good to see you." She added, and for the first time a serious note crept in to her voice. "I've missed you." She said quietly. Molly looked down for a moment. "Right," she finally continued, more happily. "Well, you guys will have the upstairs. Tom, Caroline and I are all in the downstairs bedrooms, and when Mom gets here, I think we'll just put Caroline in with Tom and me, and Mom can have Caroline's room." She continued more tentatively after a moment. "Is that alright with you?"

Margaret studied Molly for a moment. She had missed her. She hadn't really thought about it until now, but she had genuinely missed her sister.

"Yes." Margaret replied with certainty. "It's great, Molly." She affirmed, looking at her sister seriously. "Thank you."

Molly beamed at her, pulling her into yet another hug. "Well, let's get your luggage!" She exclaimed, happily heading back outside. Margaret took a moment to try and will her brain to relax. _So far ok_, she reminded herself. When Margaret turned to follow her sister back to the car she ran into Hawkeye. He smiled knowingly at her.

"They're nice." He commented, watching her. She nodded absent-mindedly. "I'm going to find our room so I can drop _him_ off." He continued, gesturing towards Ben, who had remained sleeping in Hawkeye's arms through the introductions. His ability to snooze through anything never failed to amaze, Margaret marveled momentarily.

Hawkeye glanced up the stairs. "Want to check it out with me?" He asked, and Margaret noticed a twinkle in his eyes she hadn't seen very often lately. Margaret smiled at his back as she followed him up the wide wooden staircase.

After depositing Ben in one of the spacious bedrooms, they wandered around the rest of the upstairs. There were two bedrooms with an adjoining bath, a smaller room with a desk and chair in it, and a wide common room with couches. When she emerged from the study, Hawkeye, who seemed to have almost totally revived from his strange, tired mood earlier in the week, stood in the middle of the common room, watching her. He raised his eyebrows at her.

Margaret walked to where he stood. Hawkeye reached out, tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

"Your sister seems nice." He commented, still watching her. "Very _enthusiastic_." He added with a small smile.

Margaret smiled thinly back at him, nodding her agreement. "Molly's always been that way. Happy." She exhaled, remembering. "It used to bug the hell out of me when we were growing up."

Hawkeye didn't answer, just continued to watch her with that same thoughtful expression on his face.

She thought maybe she should say something in the way of apology. After all, this was hardly as bad as anything she'd imagined. Although her mother had yet to arrive.

Instead, Margaret looped her fingers through his, and they walked back downstairs. Margaret felt for the first time that she could push aside her anxiety about seeing her mother. She realized with surprise, she wanted to see more of the house—and maybe the beach.

She could hear voices wafting in from a sliding glass door toward the back of the house, and let Hawkeye lead her in that direction. As they approached the door, Margaret could see the beach in the backyard.

Molly and her husband were sitting around a table, and Caroline's blond hair was visible over the side of the patio. She seemed to be making a sand castle, though this close to the house there were clearly too many weeds growing for any successful architecture. Molly immediately brightened at their approach.

"Isn't this amazing?" She asked, smiling brightly, gesturing to the view. Margaret nodded, sitting in a chair across the table from her sister. Hawkeye walked over to the edge of the patio and stared out at the ocean. Margaret remembered suddenly the strange shadow in his face the other night, and wondered again about it. She didn't know what to think, or how to ask about it, but she felt momentarily a spark of hope that maybe here, away from everything, she might be able to figure it out. Figure out a lot of things.

Molly reached over to squeeze Margaret's hand, still smiling. "Can we get you guys anything to drink? Tom was talking about making martini's later, weren't you, Tom?"

Tom nodded amiably. "It's five o'clock somewhere, right?" He asked, winking at Margaret.

Margaret smiled, more to herself than anyone. "Maybe later." She answered, glancing at Hawkeye. He didn't seem to have heard the question. Margaret knew that could be the only explanation for his lack of reaction. Margaret closed her eyes against the memory of a martini that tasted like kerosene.

"So, Margaret." Molly was saying. "Tom was just asking me how you and Hawkeye met." Margaret looked up, a little taken aback by the question. Molly was watching her expectantly.

Margaret swallowed, she couldn't help but think that this was only the beginning of the barrage of questions she would have to face about her life and the choices she'd made. She took a breath, considering.

"Well," she began, looking to where Hawkeye stood at the railing. "We were at the same MASH unit in Korea." Margaret finished simply, feeling uncomfortable. Molly nodded enthusiastically at her.

"So you guys just fell in love and then when the war ended, decided to get married!" Molly said, smiling widely. "That's so romantic!" She added, gazing at Tom. "Your love endured a war! Isn't that romantic, honey?"

Tom dutifully nodded at her. Hawkeye coughed, still staring at the view, though Margaret could see a smile on his face from where she sat. Not fair.

Margaret wasn't sure how to comment. She didn't quite know how to addend the assumptions her sister made.

The way Margaret saw it, the less Molly knew the better. As Molly changed the subject to something more innocuous, Margaret allowed herself to drift, her mind turned back to those first few desolate months following her return to the States.

It wasn't until about a year after the war, that she'd seen Hawkeye again. It was when she was stationed in Indiana. She'd attended an extended Medical Training Seminar at the University of Maine—the Army had given her a choice between Maine and Tennessee.

Margaret had tried not to even consider what it could mean.

Without thinking, she'd immediately picked Maine, hoping, well not really hoping, she couldn't hope in those days, but still wanting so badly to see _him_.

How ironic that the Army would send her to Maine—almost too good to be true. But there was a National Guard training facility there in Bangor, so the rational voice Margaret desperately wanted to believe inside her head asserted that it could not be merely fate at work.

She refused to think about it too hard, about ideas of fate that she told herself she didn't believe in, had never believed in. So she went to Maine.

How strange to be in Maine, she'd thought upon arrival. The army had effected the transfer so swiftly that she hardly had time to prepare herself. To think about what it would mean to her being so close to him.

She'd ached to see him, though she also dreaded him as well, Margaret knew now. What if she sought him out and he had forgotten her, had forgotten everything about Korea? When she couldn't.

It was too much to consider, and Margaret stopped thinking about it altogether. It had troubled her how cowardly she turned out to be. She made up excuses about finding him. She didn't even have his phone number, she told herself. _You could find out_, something in her head reminded her, _it wouldn't be hard to do._ But days passed and she let cowardice and self-doubt win out.

Margaret's days went by both slowly and quickly at the same time amid her paralysis. She spoke to no one and yearned for only one person's company. Not that the thought propelled her to contact him.

She worked long hours, stayed away from her tiny, empty room on-post, away from the billeting staff who smiled and asked about her, where she was from, was she married. She avoided their innocent questions and smiles, avoided the mix of sadness and nausea their chitchat evoked.

One weekend afternoon, Margaret could not live with herself alone in an empty, drab room, and knew she couldn't stay there any longer.

So she took a bus to Old Town. There had been a brochure for it in her room—a city on a chain of islands in the Penobscot River. The _Penobscot_ River—Margaret had started at the name. Unable to ignore the odd coincidence, she'd decided to go.

_What the hell_. She'd thought. Anything was better than sitting around the Army hotel room that was only hers on a technicality, drinking. There was always the alchohol to welcome her back anyway, if this expedition failed. She could always count on the booze to wait for her, keep her company. And so Margaret went.

The afternoon air was crisp, and Margaret remembered the chilly breeze gnawed through her light coat. She had largely underestimated the potency of Maine winters, and somehow, that made sense to her. As much sense as anything made sense in those days.

She'd walked through the historic part of town, silently. The cold pierced her consciousness, but she hadn't begrudged the sensation. It was something, after all. Something to cut through the dimness.

She'd turned down a small dirt path cutting through forest on the edge of town, she didn't want to stop walking when she reached the end of the buildings. Margaret remembered how alluring it was, how lovely the clarity of being too cold to think.

Then she'd seen him. At first she'd suspected it was another specter from Korea, flashing before her eyes with the leaves swirling in the wind. After all, it wouldn't be the first time such a thing had transpired. Too many people had died for there not to be ghosts.

But as his figure had moved closer across the forest path, she'd known it was him. Who else could it be? Now matter how impossible it was, she could not mistake the dark hair, the gait of his long legs, the eyes that found hers and locked on across the distance.

He'd stood before her, and she'd been unable to speak, or afraid to, she couldn't remember. It didn't matter in the end, the answer was the same. Margaret had studied him silently, wishing she could tell if this were real, and not another strange creation of her mind. She'd shivered in the chilly wind, standing there staring at him in disbelief.

"You're cold." He'd said simply, taking off his own heavier coat and putting it around her shoulders. Margaret still hadn't moved. She hadn't been sure if hallucinations could talk.

Standing there in front of him, not quite believing his presence, Margaret felt fatigue gnawing at her chilled limbs. She hadn't eaten that day, had forgotten to or didn't feel like it. She wobbled a little on her feet. He instantly reached out to steady her, gently grasping her by the shoulders.

Margaret remembered how, without meaning to, she'd leaned into his chest at the same time he pulled her toward him. She had gasped at the rush of relief flooding through her, smelling his familiar scent, the way he easily rested his chin on her head.

"What are you doing here?" She'd breathed into his chest, somehow grasping onto a rational thought, and trying desperately to hold it long enough to make sense of this.

"I was looking for you." He'd said, and she could feel the vibrations of his voice through his throat. Margaret had frowned. It sounded like a lie.

"You were?" Margaret had angled her head back, then, to look at him.

He'd nodded. From that distance she had been able to see the lines around his eyes. Margaret had wondered then at his strangeness. A chilly breeze had suddenly begun to swirl leaves at their feet, and Margaret felt his body involuntarily shiver. She'd frowned again.

"Now _you're_ cold." She'd remarked, starting to take off the coat he'd placed on her shoulders. He'd stopped her, holding onto her arms.

"It's fine. I don't mind it." He'd said, exhaling heavily. Margaret had stared at him, wishing she _didn't_ know exactly what he meant by that. She still could not believe he was standing in front of her.

She'd continued to watch him, trying to read his expression, figure out what was happening. There was something peculiar about his eyes that she hadn't been able to name, midnight blue deepened, darkened, not wholly unrecognizable, but changed.

Margaret had started to speak again, ask him why he was standing here in this place, at this moment, why? But she hadn't been able to finish.

He'd kissed her then, his hands in her hair, a sweet, sad, desperate kiss that made her feel like they were standing in the rain.

She'd pulled away from him. His kiss had hurt her. Made her remember, when she was trying so hard to forget.

"What are you doing here?" Margaret had asked again, and emotion choked her voice, made it sound a little hysterical. He'd stared at her through those strange, dark eyes.

"I heard about the conference." He'd answered, taking a step toward her. Margaret stood motionless, watching him.

"How did you find me?" She'd whispered. He'd grinned at her then, a sharp, cockeyed grin that scared more than reassured.

"Must have been destiny." He'd said. Margaret had frowned at this answer. She hadn't been able to help feeling once again that this was a lie. What the hell was that supposed to mean, anyway? She hadn't had any more time to consider it, though.

He'd closed the distance between them, then, as the wind blew her hair. He'd smoothed the hair back from her face, and added quietly, "I called billeting on-post. You weren't there. I came here." She'd closed her eyes then, and let him pull her to his chest again. She'd been so tired in that moment—tired of trying to make things make sense.

"Come with me?" He'd whispered into her hair, and Margaret detected something broken in his voice. It was a plea, and she'd known it—a last chance. She'd been afraid as she let him lead her back toward civilization across the ground damp with leaves.

Margaret was jolted from her thoughts by the sound of a voice calling from inside the house. She froze. Her mother had arrived.


	3. Day One Continued

Vacare

Chapter 3

Margaret was only dimly aware that her hands involuntarily clenched under the table when she heard the unmistakable sound of her mother's voice from inside the house. She unclenched them and willed calmness to return.

What the hell was she so worried about, anyway? Margaret suddenly wondered. Did she really care that much about what her mother thought? She didn't know.

But she was tired of agonizing over it. She knew that with certainty. Her mother had dominated so much of her life, maybe it was time for change. Margaret had avoided her family for too long.

Molly and her husband had cheerfully risen and walked back into the house, yelling to Caroline "Grandma's here."

As she watched Tom put his arm around Molly when they headed inside, Margaret's thoughts turned pensive. Would her life be like Molly's if Korea hadn't happened? Molly's world seemed effortlessly blissful. Just, happy. Simple. Not that Margaret was unhappy, quite the opposite. But Margaret knew that Molly's life wasn't constantly shadowed by ghosts from the past. Molly had never seen death, never been drenched in another human being's blood.

And Margaret could never forget. She knew it, now, after all the time that had passed. Nor could she reclaim the ability to be unaffectedly happy, even for a moment. She knew that now too.

Margaret wasn't bitter at this, though, not anymore. Just…pensive, she repeated to herself. Margaret suspected that she was never carefree as Molly. And even without having seen all that she'd seen and felt what she'd felt, she didn't know if she'd ever possessed the lightheartedness Molly exuded. Still, Margaret had to wonder what she might've had if she'd never gone to Korea.

She didn't usually linger on this, because it was impossible to conceive of her life without Ben—without Hawkeye.

She felt someone's gaze on her face, and realized Hawkeye was watching her from where he leaned against the railing. When she met his eyes he cocked his head at her. Margaret clenched her jaw. _Bite the bullet_, he'd said earlier.

She knew suddenly why he'd urged her to come, why he'd made her come. He knew that despite her protestations, on some level she did, in fact _need_ to be here.

She marveled—not for the first time—how it was that he always managed to be a step ahead of her? Margaret felt at once relieved and chagrined that once again he'd been able to figure her out. Before even _she_ could.

Margaret stood and strode purposefully toward the backdoor of the house. As she approached, she could see Molly and her husband exchanging pleasantries with her mother.

The world seemed to slow with each step she took, and in between elongated moments Margaret considered once again her estrangement from her family. What was it that kept her from them? Margaret knew now how much she had missed her sister, and how happy she was to see first-hand that things were well for Molly.

But her mother was different. Margaret searched her feelings and found only coolness when she considered the woman that raised her. Something very small inside of her urged her to leave, escape. But there was no turning back now.

"Mom." She stated neutrally, walking to where the group stood inside the house. Her mother's eyes swiftly fixed themselves on Margaret.

"Hello, Margaret." The older woman answered coolly, briefly embracing her. "How are you, dear?" Her mother's voice betrayed little emotion, and Margaret wondered if perhaps they might yet make it through the week without hostility. If things continued to progress as they were at this moment, anyway. Margaret knew her own ability to subdue her visible emotions had always been admirable, but was trifling when compared to her mother's stoicism.

Margaret studied her mother. All things considered, she looked good. A little older, little more severe—particularly around the eyes—but good. It had been a hard couple of years for her, Margaret assumed rather than knew, but still, her mother seemed okay. Who could tell, though, with that woman?

"I'm good, Mom." Margaret finally answered, trying to maintain neutrality. Her mother nodded, and Margaret noticed her eyes focus on something behind her. But then, Hawkeye had always possessed a keen sense of good timing. Margaret added, glancing back, "Mom, this is Hawkeye."

Margaret watched this introduction unfold, watched her mother scrutinize Hawkeye, wondering if she should say more, but one glance at Hawkeye calmed her Hawkeye met her eyes, reassured her silently.

"I'm very glad to finally meet you, Hawkeye." Margaret's mother was saying. She looked pointedly at Margaret. Margaret swallowed, wondering if that was her cue to talk. Before Margaret could attempt to address this, her mother continued.

"And where is my grandson?" The older woman asked archly, still studying Hawkeye. Margaret started to reply, but Hawkeye spoke before she could.

"In one of the upstairs bedrooms. He fell asleep on the way here." He responded, and Margaret felt him place an encouraging hand on her back. Margaret's mother nodded.

"Actually," Hawkeye continued suddenly. "It might be a good idea to wake him up now. If we want him to sleep tonight." He finished, turning to raise his eyebrows at Margaret.

Her mother continued to watch Hawkeye silently.

"I would very much like to meet him." She stated, a little coldly. Hawkeye looked at Margaret questioningly, and Margaret nodded at him. She'd get Ben.

Hawkeye's fingertips gently pressed into her back in acknowledgement, and Margaret smiled thinly at him before heading toward the staircase.

As Margaret steadily walked up the stairs, she felt a pang of remorse leaving Hawkeye alone down there. If she intended to be halfway honest with herself, then she would have to admit she felt intense relief to have avoided the situation any further.

Besides, Margaret told herself, Hawkeye would be fine. She knew it innately—that if anyone was capable of such an act, Hawkeye could weather her mother.

She took a moment to ponder her words—_weather_ her mother? Hurricane Carol. Margaret might've have smiled at herself if it hadn't been terrible. And true.

Margaret stood on the landing for a moment, listening to the faint sound of voices talking downstairs. She allowed herself a smile as she quietly opened the door to the bedroom in which Ben was sleeping. She paused in the doorway to study him briefly, and smiled more fully when she noted his appearance. He was completely sprawled out on the bed in the manner of a starfish, his cheeks were flushed from sleeping.

Margaret walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. Reaching over with one hand, she gently stroked his satin cheek.

At length, he opened his eyes, glancing blearily around the room before focusing on her. She smiled at him, feeling a rush of love for this small person. He'd come to represent so much for her—something she'd never dared acknowledge before his birth. Hope. Margaret pushed a wispy hair off of his forehead.

"Hi, Benny." She said, leaning down to kiss his temple. He smiled sweetly at her through sleepy eyes and rubbed his face with his tiny baby hands. The day he was born, Margaret had touched each perfect finger in awe.

Margaret smiled down at her beautiful boy, growing so fast, and each day he looked more and more like Hawkeye. She gently combed his hair with her fingers, observing the way natural light from the window refracted flecks of cobalt in his eyes just as they did in his father's when he smiled. She saw the long, delicate nose, the same strong chin. It never failed to stop her breath, how much love she felt for this person.

Ben plaintively held his arms out and Margaret pulled him obligingly onto her lap.

When he buried his face in her shoulder, Margaret breathed deeply in his smell of sleep and baby hair. Margaret sat silently rocking with him for a moment, relishing the way his small arms clasped her neck and the softness of his hair against her cheek. He pulled back suddenly to look at her, his eyes bright with intelligence and wonder.

"Duck?" He asked hopefully. Margaret smiled at him, brushing the hair out of his eyes again. She considered with some dismay that they would have to cut his hair for the first time very soon.

"No, Benny, I don't think there are any ducks here." She finally answered, noticing the immediate disappointment darkening his wide blue eyes. "But there are probably seagulls!" She added quickly. His face brightened.

"Bwead?" He inquired seriously. Margaret kissed his head.

"I'm sure the seagulls eat bread." She assured him, starting to stand. "Let's go downstairs. There are a lot of people who want to meet you." Ben shook his head, frowning at her.

Margaret sat back down and looked at him meaningfully. "Ben." She allowed a hint of sternness to enter her voice, though she smiled inwardly, recalling her days as Major Houlihan, and had to marvel at how the sternness had dramatically tapered.

Margaret considered him for a minute. She tried a different approach.

"Do you want to go see Daddy? _He's_ downstairs." Ben nodded, smiling happily. Margaret was instantly reminded of Hawkeye in his wide grin and sparkling eyes. A smile she would recognize anywhere, though it always surprised her when Ben recreated it.

She never thought she'd so often see it in another.

"Okay." She affirmed, lifting him and moving toward the door. "Why do you like ducks so much, anyway?" Margaret asked, starting to walk down the stairs. Ben quacked loudly at her.

"Ah," she noted, lightly tickling his ribs. "It all becomes clear."

Ben giggled into her collarbone as she descended the last few steps. Making her way through the kitchen, she happened upon Molly and Tom standing in conversation. When Molly noticed their presence, she stopped speaking to Tom and turned in their direction.

"Here he is!" She exclaimed, seeing Ben. "Aren't you cute?" Molly moved closer and reached for Ben, but he buried his head in Margaret's shoulder in response. Margaret smiled at her sister apologetically.

Molly smiled back a moment before looking meaningfully at Margaret. "Mom and Hawkeye are on the back porch." Her voice contained a tinge of concern, her large eyes searched Margaret's.

Margaret was silent for a moment, imagining what horrific things could transpire in such a circumstance.

As if anticipating Margaret's apprehensions, Molly added more quietly. "They seemed okay." Margaret nodded at her, but couldn't shake the feeling that something catastrophic was happening on the porch.

Molly turned back toward Ben, smiling. "Ben, do you like the beach?" Ben nodded tentatively at her. She smiled more widely at him, continuing enthusiastically, "Tomorrow we can go swimming!"

Molly turned back toward Tom, who stood against the kitchen counter sipping a beer. "Who do you think he looks like?" She asked after a moment, nodding at Ben and leaning back next to Tom. Tom considered this a moment.

"Well, he doesn't really look like a Houlihan. Does he?" He drawled. Molly nodded her agreement.

"No, you're right." Molly paused to think about this. "Though, you should know that if you're basing that statement on the fact that he doesn't have blond hair, I do believe Margaret's hair was once close to that color." Molly noted, smiling mischievously at Margaret.

Molly was right of course, Margaret realized. When she was very young her hair _had_ been nearer that shade. A little lighter perhaps, than Ben's light brown, but very close. She slowly smiled at Molly.

Molly met her eyes a moment, and Margaret read clearly once again how much she'd hurt her sister by not contacting her for so long. She knew it now, she'd let it go for too long. Margaret felt guilt and regret about distancing herself from Molly, she didn't deserve to be treated with so little regard. No matter what Margaret was going through, she should not have set aside her sister.

And now Margaret could do nothing but continue to stare sadly at Molly, until Molly looked away and her characteristic exuberance returned.

"Well, you should head out there. I'm sure Mom's dying to meet _you_." She said, speaking down to Ben and affectionately patting his head. "Good luck." She added, almost inaudibly to Margaret. Margaret nodded at her, pausing to stroke Ben's hair and gather strength before heading outside.

Margaret walked steadily toward the sound of voices drifting in from the back porch. She paused once more to take a deep breath before stepping into the doorway.

Ben immediately saw Hawkeye sitting in a chair around the table and reached toward him in Margaret's arms. Margaret deposited him in Hawkeye's lap.

"Hi, buddy." Hawkeye said to him, meeting Margaret's eyes. She wondered at the gesture—she couldn't quite read his expression, it disturbed her more than she liked. Still, everything seemed relatively calm. Which was amazing. Margaret realized suddenly her mother was staring at her expectantly.

Margaret stood next to Hawkeye's chair and glanced across the table to where her mother sat.

"Mom." She began, "This is Ben." She leaned down so she was level with Ben. "Ben, this is your grandma. Can you say 'hi' to Grandma?" Ben was concentrating on a cup he'd found on the table.

"Hi, Gwandma." He said dutifully, still staring at the cup in his hands and alternately banging it against Hawkeye's knee. Margaret's mother studied Ben for a moment.

"He looks like you." She observed without emotion, looking at Hawkeye. Hawkeye nodded at her, meeting her gaze without flinching. Something seemed to pass between them, and Margaret wondered suddenly what they'd been talking about while she was elsewhere.

"Margaret." Her mother's voice startled Margaret. "Won't you sit down? Hawkeye and I were just discussing your job." She stopped speaking and raised her eyebrows at Margaret with interest. Margaret sat in the chair next to Hawkeye, feeling a tired and more than a little apprehensive.

"My job?" Margaret repeated uneasily, wondering how worried she should be. The older woman nodded.

"Yes, your job. I was wondering how long you were planning on continuing to work. I asked Hawkeye, and I believe he said it was 'up to you.' But he's been very vague about the whole arrangement." She explained, and her eyes bored into Margaret's. "Am I to understand that you chose to remain in the Army? I assumed the last time we spoke it was some sort of transitional thing." She made a sweeping gesture with one hand to emphasize the last couple of words.

Margaret looked down. How could she explain? Explain why they'd decided she'd stay in the Army. Explain that she'd gone back to work after the baby, because Hawkeye needed more time.

A faint touch on her arm startled Margaret from her thoughts. She looked up and realized Hawkeye had stood beside her with Ben, who'd incidentally begun to quack again.

"I think we're going to walk down to the beach. See if we can't find a few birds to look at." He said quietly, shifting Ben in his arms to grasp her shoulder for a moment. His gaze locked with hers. She nodded at him. He inclined his head at her, and Margaret thought she saw his eyes darken, but only for a second, and then he nodded back.

He said a polite good-bye to her mother, then, and as he walked steadily down the stairs leading to the backyard, Ben waved over Hawkeye's shoulder at her, the cup still in his hand. She waved back, wondering at the momentary shadow in Hawkeye's eyes.

Margaret knew that he wanted to make sure she would be alright if he left her alone, she'd seen the concern in his gaze. She'd tried to tell him that she would be fine..

Of course she would. Though she did feel the slightest hint of dread at his obvious desire to avoid the conversation. She supposed it made sense. _They_ hadn't really talked about it, and Margaret certainly did not want to do so in the presence of her mother.

But, she had to consider that there were bigger things at stake here. Margaret allowed herself to ask the question she'd been avoiding for far too many months—did the baby from the bus still haunt him? She didn't really know what had happened that day, only what he'd whispered in the night after waking, screaming, and she'd held him. Held onto him, was actually more accurate.

She knew it was the reason he'd wanted to stay home with Ben, though he hadn't really said this in so many words. But then, she'd understood, or thought she had. It was a therapy of sorts—probably the best kind imaginable, when she got right down to it.

And he'd genuinely seemed better in the months following her return to work. With each day that passed they freed themselves a little more from the icy clasp in which the war held them. Margaret felt Hawkeye turning from Korea, felt him enlivening as they raised their son. She knew he only required time. Still. Margaret couldn't help but wonder in her most secret of hearts if he'd ever fully recover. And she was most decidedly not going to discuss _this_ with her mother.

"Margaret, what's his full name?" Margaret didn't really hear her mother's voice as much as felt it cut through her thoughts. She looked up. Her mother's eyes stared at her, cold, expressionless, waiting for her to reply.

Margaret could just make out the figures of Hawkeye and Ben heading out to the waterline over the railing of the porch. Hawkeye had put Ben down to let him walk, holding his hand to steady him on the uneven sand.

"Margaret. The baby. What's his proper name?" Her mother repeated, tucking a wisp of gray hair behind her ear with calculated coolness. Margaret, initially startled by the question, couldn't help but be relieved her mother had inexplicably moved on from the other line of questioning.

"Benjamin Daniel." Margaret replied weakly, starting to worry that some trap must be hidden in such a simple query. Her mother seemed to consider this.

"So he's named after Hawkeye, then? Certainly none of those names are associated with our family." Margaret's mother watched her closely for her reaction.

"Right." Margaret answered, slowly. "Hawkeye's first name is Benjamin, and his father is Daniel."

"Why his father?" The older woman asked, slightly accusatory.

"He and Hawkeye are very close. It seemed like the right thing to do." Margaret replied, purposely giving her the shortest explanation.

The name had actually been her idea. The relationship Hawkeye had with his father was something Margaret could only observe from the outside. She could only imagine what it felt like to have a parent who genuinely cared about you. Not that her parents didn't have a general concern for her well-being—she'd never wanted for any material item—but they'd never understood her as a person. Never tried to.

Margaret had met Daniel Pierce only once, but felt immediately upon speaking with him that her own parents were remiss in so many ways. He'd reminded her a bit of Colonel Potter in that respect—a mentor and friend. Something she'd never found in her own parents.

Margaret realized absent-mindedly that this was the first time she'd allowed herself to think of the Colonel in a very long time. She felt suddenly that she missed him. Missed his kindness.

"He lives in Maine, correct?" Her mother commented, disrupting Margaret's thoughts and Margaret couldn't quite understand why it sounded to her like an insult.

"That's right." She answered neutrally, wondering what was happening here. Her mother fell silent, seemingly mulling this bit of information over.

After a moment she noted, "You know Molly named her daughter, Caroline, for me."

"I know, Mom." Margaret replied, growing more confused as to where this conversation was heading.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Margaret felt incredulous. "The name we chose is just…it's what we wanted at the time." Margaret exhaled heavily, continuing more rapidly as she grew increasingly incensed. "It's nothing personal. There's no deeper meaning, here. It would be awfully hard to name a boy anything derived from 'Carol,' Mom."

"You might've considered your father."

Margaret grimaced. "You're right. I might've. I didn't."

"Well, perhaps the next child, then." Her mother finished casually. Margaret didn't answer, she almost choked. Leave it to her mother to make simple conversations dark and dangerous. Twist complications more tightly and thrust knives into healing wounds.

She hadn't even considered Ben when he…happened. And that was an entirely different matter.

Her mother seemed to pick up on her unease and, after studying her silently a moment, inquired very slowly, "You _are_ planning on having more?"

Margaret didn't answer her, didn't even really hear her. She was beginning to feel intensely that she wanted out of this conversation, wanted to be far away, walking on the beach with Hawkeye and Ben.

"Did you _even_ plan on _him_?" Her mother added quietly, almost to herself. Margaret failed to fully register this comment as well.

"Margaret, when was the child born?"

Margaret looked sharply at her mother. She could do quick enough math in her head to anticipate where her mother was headed. Margaret knew Ben's birthday. But, she would be damned if she was going to play into her mother's hand. Margaret opted to stare stoically at the woman across the table.

"Maybe I should ask how long was it _after you were married_ that he was born. I've had my suspicions—the timing was all very irregular." Her mother's voice grew suddenly pointed, biting.

Margaret wondered if her mother had been planning this inquisition all along—it seemed from its abruptness that she had. It figured.

"What are you implying, Mother?" Margaret asked, echoing the sharpness in the other woman's voice and narrowing her eyes.

"I think you know what I'm _implying_, dear." Her mother responded quickly.

"Why don't you say it, then, just so we're all on the same page?"

"Fine." Her mother leaned forward in her chair and continued in a slow, deliberate tone, "I'm asking you whether or not my grandson was conceived _illegitimately_." She finished, inclining back in the chair.

"Mom." Margaret began quietly. "I will only say this once. Whether or not he _was_ or _wasn't_ is not any of your business. I don't have to answer to you about any part of my life. You have no reason to think that, yet immediately that's the conclusion you draw!" She exclaimed, her voice increasing steadily in volume. "You're just so ready to assume, aren't you?" Margaret paused a moment, then gritted her teeth and continued when something else occurred to her. "And that goes for Hawkeye as well. I don't know what you said to him out here, but you can't just _interrogate_ him—you don't even know him! You have no idea what my life has been like these past few years—the reasoning behind any of my actions. So _don't_ presume to know." She stopped once more before finishing in a low voice. "And certainly _don't_ presume to know _me_. Not anymore." Margaret fell silent. There was more to say, but for the time being, that was enough. She had had enough.

"Well, that answers _that_ question, doesn't it?" Her mother noted smugly after a moment.

Margaret didn't answer, just stared at her in disbelief. She realized she didn't know the person sitting across from her. She never had.

"Margaret, please don't get so angry with me." Her mother started to say, almost amiably. "I just think that some of the choices you've made have been mistakes, that's all. That's all I've been trying to tell you." She finished, and her voice dripped condescension, something Margaret could not abide.

Margaret stood up abruptly, turning toward the stairs leading down to the beach below.

"Where are you going, Margaret?" Her mother demanded.

"For a walk." She answered shortly, beginning the descent. If her mother answered, Margaret didn't hear it. She was already gone.

When she'd walked across the boardwalk and finally stepped onto the soft sand of the beach, only then had she relaxed. She unclenched her hands, she couldn't remember at what point she'd tightened them in the first place. It didn't matter now.

The sun had just begun its descent into the horizon and the last glimmering rays of light cast red and orange panels onto the water. It was lovely.

Margaret stared into the distance and thought she saw two figures farther down along the shoreline. She set off unhurriedly in that direction, beginning to lose herself in thought.

Margaret considered seriously what her mother had said, and remembered the time after she had encountered Hawkeye in Maine. It was a strange, convoluted time and her memory of it was dominated by an overriding sense of being utterly lost, adrift.

Her mother had commented that the _timing was all very irregular_, and although she had no idea how accurate she really was, she had indeed hit the nail on the head.

She'd gone with Hawkeye that day—the day she'd gone to see the Penobscot River. How could she not? It had seemed impossible—his being there. And maybe it was.

He explained later, when they headed back to her room on-Post that he heard about the conference—he admitted he'd been following Army and National Guard activities in Maine. When she asked why, he looked down, suddenly more unsure of himself than she'd ever seen.

He said he didn't know what he expected to find by looking for her, and he still wasn't sure. He told her he needed to see her, if only to compare his own lingering scars against someone else's. No, he'd amended grasping her arms when she'd started to leave at the statement, _not someone else's—hers_.

She tried to make him understand that this was a bad idea—them. They were out of place in the world because of the war, but that didn't mean they ought to compound this fact by hiding from it in each other.

It was a bad idea. She'd tried to tell him, tried to make _herself_ believe it. They were barely friends at the 4077th. She'd thrown it at him. Though that wasn't altogether accurate, either.

But it was easier to say than the truth.

Margaret moved closer to the shoreline until her feet made imprints in the damper sand and waves lapped gently at her ankles.

The truth was that in the few years spent in Korea, she came to trust him—more than anyone else in her life— and to associate him with a solace of sorts, someone she'd sought comfort from on more than one occasion.

There'd always been sex. Even in the beginning when they hated each other, there was always a moment or two when she couldn't help but consider it. Brief moments chased away by the indignance and perhaps just a little, fear.

And then later it was the only thing keeping her sane at times. When the wounded came for days and days and she forgot how to sleep.

That was the easy part of their strange relationship—always had been. There was something unspeakably simple about the physicality of it—the ease with which they fell into place.

She'd sought him out during those long, bone-chillingly cold nights in Korea for precisely that reason—to make the atrocity of her convoluted existence during the war more bearable, if only for a few, fleeting moments of blaring, crystal clear pleasure.

And then it became okay.

But to actually attempt a healthy relationship? Surely that was asking too much of them—either of them.

She'd made her mind up then, that day. It wouldn't work, and would only make things worse in the long run. Perhaps what she dread, what she could not help but consider was what she would do if he decided to leave her again. Then what? What would she do without even a last resort?

Then he'd looked past all of these dark thoughts circulating behind her eyes and kissed her—hard, like he used to in her tent after endless days of bloody death in the OR. They'd been too desperate to think about anything else, like that first, frantic night in the abandoned hut when death had seemed imminent and added a new urgency to their actions—and she'd decided to wait to order him out until she could breathe again.

This was wrong, she'd thought, telling herself to stop, it wasn't a solution. And it would only hurt more when it didn't work out.

But he was so near, and then, so was the bed. Everything awry in her life came crashing down around her and she couldn't think anymore, didn't want to think. She just wanted to lose herself in him again, and again.

He could give her a few moments in which she forgot, and she could give it back to him, and that was something.

He'd stayed with her for the three months she was at the seminar. She would go to work, attend her classes, go through the motions—continue her life during the day, and then come back to him and their room in the evening.

They went out, sometimes, though never to places with large crowds of people—Margaret had learned that you could never tell who was real in a crowd, and maybe you would catch a glimpse of someone, someone you knew, or died.

She never asked him if that was why he avoided crowds too.

And there were moments when they behaved like a normal couple, actually, which was almost strange, Margaret had thought at the time.

Mostly they stayed in. There was a lot of drinking. Her mind had unconsciously come to associate Hawkeye and drinking with comfort over the years. Comfort wasn't it though, not really. Not for her, despite her attempts to fool herself into thinking otherwise.

In those days, did they ever speak words like "love" out loud? Margaret wasn't sure she remembered any specific instances—just jumbled phrases murmured into necks, shoulders, lips. Hawkeye—half-asleep mumbling incoherently into her back.

Margaret stopped to watch the sun sink further below the horizon. She could see Hawkeye and Ben still a fair distance away. They seemed to have turned around to walk back in her direction, though it was difficult to tell from so far.

When Margaret discovered she was pregnant at the end of the Army seminar, she had felt numb, void. She remembered how confusing everything seemed. Her entire world was consumed by death—she saw its all-encompassing blackness everywhere she turned—how was it then that they'd managed to create life?

They were barely able to take care of themselves. And now, another human being would suddenly be their responsibility to nurture?

It had to be impossible—or a joke. A terrible joke. God—or whoever the hell it was—could not be that cruel. The entire idea was inconceivable. She'd wanted to cry hysterically but found herself paralyzed instead.

She'd discovered a new fear that day—something that extended far beyond her fear of rejection, and of death, and of any specter she'd yet witnessed from the war. It was terrifying to so directly control a life and Margaret felt utterly daunted by the heaviness of the responsibility.

Especially when she considered the ambivalence which she'd so recently come to express toward her own life.

When she'd flatly told Hawkeye, she expected him to immediately run away. She'd prepared herself for it actually. Hell, she couldn't blame him. _She_ wanted to run away.

But he hadn't. She thought then, perhaps it was because he was shocked, and he'd leave once he'd recovered.

But he hadn't done that either. She'd seen the terror in his eyes, though, and worried that it too closely mirrored her own.

He still had nightmares, great, terrible, shaking nightmares so profound that sometimes Margaret felt they transferred to her and she saw the images too.

She didn't understand then, what had happened with the baby on the bus during the last few months of the war, but she knew it had pronounced effects on Hawkeye.

And Margaret wondered sometimes if he'd be able to handle their own child without triggering some sort of breakdown.

He had shocked her thoroughly when he'd suggested they get married. She didn't expect anything like that from him—hell, she didn't even know how much she cared about that anymore, anyway. She'd been married. It had disappointed her.

_Margaret,_ he'd said, _I want this. I do. And not just because it's the right thing to do_, he'd told her. The right thing to do? She'd wondered. How did he know what the right thing to do was anymore?

But on some level, she guessed he was right. So they'd gone to the courthouse.

Margaret was suddenly aware that Ben and Hawkeye were walking toward her, and were significantly closer than when she'd last observed.

How long had she been standing in that spot? She didn't know, but she consciously decided to halt her thoughts. Margaret felt an urgent desire to hold Ben, to press him close to her face, to refute the cold words of her mother by reconciling their malice with the softness of his hair.

She began to walk toward their figures, which cast long shadows in the quickly diminishing sunlight.


	4. Day One Part 3

Vacare

Chapter 4

Margaret watched the figures of Ben and Hawkeye move closer and closer to her in the dim light of the evening. Standing there, feeling damp sand beneath her feet, she couldn't stop thinking about her mother's words. Uttered in spite, but so true. Too true.

Margaret knew on some level she shouldn't allow the woman to get to her. After all, her mother wasn't even part of her life anymore. But that didn't make it hurt any less—didn't make the spite and the bitterness feel any less real.

When they got close enough for Hawkeye to point her out to Ben, the baby ran on his little legs to where she stood. Margaret crouched down to embrace him on the beach.

"Hi buddy," she said quietly into his hair, trying to repress sudden tears burning her eyes. Margaret clenched her eyes tightly closed against the softness of Ben's hair until tears no longer threatened to fall.

As Ben turned away from her to play in the sand, she stood and stared broodingly at the horizon. Margaret felt Hawkeye stop and stand next to her, but continued to watch waves crash against the shore.

They stood in silence for a long time.

"She has so much bitterness." Margaret felt herself speak the words as she thought them. "It's unimaginable that things—important things—that _we_ haven't even talked about are immediately visible to her. Immediately obvious. It's unfair." She finished, feeling lost.

If Hawkeye reacted to this Margaret didn't detect it in her peripheral vision. Still motionless, he spoke.

"What did she say?" Margaret heard him finally ask.

She turned to face him. She watched his face for a moment, observed the lines around his eyes and recalled the tiredness of his voice. She suddenly realized something.

This was stupid. Stupid and pointless. They were on vacation, and nothing her mother said was going to stop her from appreciating how beautiful the sunset looked over the blue-gray of the ocean. She wouldn't let her mother win.

Margaret reached out to take his hand.

"She's a bitch." She answered simply, contemplatively, studying his hand in hers. She looked up. He was smiling at her.

"She _really_ is." He agreed, sounding a little relieved. Without warning he brought his other hand to pull her toward him, then let it rest on the back of her neck underneath her hair. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, happy to comply.

Margaret pulled back to say something but the words disappeared from her mind when she saw the sunset. Noticing her movement he wrinkled his forehead at her quizzically.

"Pretty." She said simply in reply, indicating the sunset. He nodded, glancing in that direction.

"Thanks," he muttered, letting go of her to look in Ben's direction, "but I prefer 'handsome.'" He finished absent-mindedly, striding to where Ben sat in the sand and scooping him up.

"Should we head back?" He asked Ben, who shook his head. Hawkeye looked toward Margaret. Margaret frowned. She wished they were alone out here, she didn't want to deal with her relatives anymore. They were exhausting. She sighed.

She turned thoughtfully to observe him, asking suddenly, "Is _that_ what _I_ was like when you first met me?" Hawkeye grinned at the horizon, shaking his head. Margaret breathed a silent sigh of relief, then saw the look on his face and stopped.

"You were much more terrifying than _that_." He continued, still smiling. Margaret exhaled heavily, not sure how to take that.

Ben wriggled in Hawkeye's arms and scurried off toward a hole he'd been digging in the sand when Hawkeye put him back down.

When Hawkeye straightened and glanced at her his eyes clouded at the expression on her face.

"You must have hated me so much." She noted quietly, a little sadly, running a tired hand through her hair.

He turned now to look directly into her eyes. The smile on his face had vanished and was replaced by a look of concern and something else she couldn't give a name to. It resembled regret.

"I never hated you." He said seriously without averting his gaze. Margaret grimaced and crossed her arms, preparing to contradict him. He stopped her, holding onto her elbow with one hand insistently.

"Even when you were still wearing your 'regular Army clown' hat." He added, his voice level, though his eyes faintly betrayed a smile.

Margaret scrutinized his features, searching for signs of insincerity. No, he wasn't joking or mocking, she concluded. Only earnestness glimmered in the shadowed blue of his eyes.

Margaret considered this for a moment. She realized she'd barely cringed at the memory of her old self. Those days were a very long time ago now, though.

Maybe she'd stopped caring about making certain the Margaret then and the Margaret now stayed separate. Maybe, she thought, it didn't matter anymore, because all the lines of her life seemed to converge on this moment, in this place.

Maybe the Margaret then and the Margaret now weren't really that different—she was still inside here somewhere, after all. Just the heavy defenses posted around her emotions seemed to have changed. The idea didn't frighten her as much as she would have guessed.

"I guess I always thought you hated me." She found herself saying in a small voice.

"Well, I won't deny there were times I…" His voice trailed off abruptly, he seemed to be momentarily lost in the thought he'd failed to verbalize. Margaret wondered at the strange, small, fond smile on his face.

Very uncharacteristic, Margaret thought feeling uneasy. She'd never known him to be wistful. Bitter perhaps, but not wistful.

He fixed his gaze once more on hers before continuing. "I think that despite everything, looking back, I always…" He halted, seemed to be searching for words. Margaret couldn't identify the expression of his eyes, but he seemed to be struggling with something.

"Loved you." He finished quickly, exhaling heavily. He watched her closely, gauging her reaction. He smiled a little, before adding, "Or wanted to love you, anyway. Not that you'd have let me in those days." Something mischievous passed across his eyes.

He reached for her hand and studied it. "That was a very long time ago." He noted absentmindedly, overturning her palm and observing its surface as if trying to divine the future.

Margaret didn't move. She was surprised at such honesty. More than surprised. Theirs was indeed a complicated relationship. And that was a terrific understatement.

Complicated because of who they were and, more recently, who they'd become. Complicated mostly because they'd watched themselves change and seen it in each other and never said anything.

Complicated because sometimes it was easier for her to talk to him without speaking—most of the time actually. This new communication felt foreign to her. And a little frightening.

There was a lot unsaid, actually, come to think of it.

Without warning Margaret cleared the space between them and tucked her head securely under his chin. She felt his arms immediately pull her close and rest warmly on her back. Margaret listened to the beating of his heart next to her heart, smelling his familiar scent that had somehow come to be aligned in her brain with salvation.

She marveled at the ease with which their bodies knew what to do—more than words could ever say.

Words were unfocused and meaningless, but this was fixed, finite, easily definable.

Margaret felt his lips press against her ear, heard him say again that they should get back. She knew he was right. The sun's rays were no longer visible above the horizon and the dim light of evening was now all around them. But the darkness didn't faze her. Not here.

Margaret let go of him and nodded her reluctant agreement.

She tried to tell herself that tomorrow would be a new day. She couldn't help but cringe inwardly at the cliché and at her own sentimentality. Old habits and all that.

Well, she corrected herself, don't be so cynical—tomorrow is in point of fact a new day.

Margaret felt mildly encouraged by that thought. Hawkeye had picked Ben up once more and with his free hand aimed her in the direction of the house. Margaret threaded her fingers through his and leaned on his arm as they walked back.

They walked across the damp and dry sand in silence. Ben had laid his head on Hawkeye's shoulder and though Margaret couldn't see in the dark of the cool evening, she knew he would fall asleep there.

Margaret loved her son, but she could never have what he and his father shared. It was inexplicable.

Margaret thought it had something to do with Hawkeye and the way in which Ben had helped subdue the ghosts left over from the war for him. She didn't know what had happened with the baby on the bus, didn't know if he'd ever tell her the full story of it.

But she did know that Hawkeye thought he could somehow make up for whatever horrific event had transpired by loving their son. And maybe he could.

She couldn't help but think that after all, weren't they both just trying to find a way to make the war fit? Make it align in some way with their own lives now.

But Margaret would probably never understand this. And maybe somehow, that was alright.

"Margaret?" She heard his voice, but was still immersed in her own thoughts. She felt his hand on her arm and turned toward him. She realized suddenly they'd stopped in front of the walkway leading up to the house.

"About what you said earlier." Margaret couldn't make the expression on his face out in the swiftly darkening light as he spoke. His voice sounded strange, uncomfortable.

"About you and me not talking about things that your mother could see?" He continued quickly, and Margaret heard him swallow hard. Margaret started to answer, tell him she didn't mean to say that, reassure him but he interrupted.

"I know you weren't really talking to me when you said it," he anticipated her response. "But," he began again and seemed to be struggling to find words. "Maybe you had a point."

Margaret wasn't sure how to react to this. What did he mean?

"Maybe," he interrupted her thoughts once more. "We should talk about things." Margaret was taken aback.

They had, until this moment, maintained a strange, non-verbal agreement, both preferring to communicate through touch, through reading each other's moods and emotions without speaking. Suddenly the act of speaking became difficult to conceive.

This was frightening for Margaret. She felt herself nod her agreement, though. He was right. She saw him nod back in the dim light. He grasped her hand once more and they ascended the steps to the house.

Margaret couldn't explain the feeling of hope overwhelming her mind. Maybe this was their chance to once and for all leave the ghosts of the past behind. Leave the war behind. She set her jaw and climbed the stairs to the house with a new purpose in her step.

A/N: Gah! Sorry this is so short and probably so crappy! And furthermore, I'm massively sorry for taking so bloody long to post. My life has become so incredibly busy in the last month that there really aren't words. Let's just say that I've sold my soul to the theater, and probably won't be getting it back any time soon. Meanwhile, I will do my best to update more frequently and with more quality chapters in the future. I'm also working on a third chapter to Mad World at the moment, so look for that in the (not necessarily near) but certain future. Thanks!


End file.
